This week our last two children, our twin daughters, moved into their own apartment in Washington, D.C., making my wife and me official card-carrying empty nesters. It was kind of exciting. Unless one of our kids fails spectacularly at adulthood and moves back home, which I’ve made clear to all of them will result in legal action, this will be the final launch. We did the walk-through of the girls’ new but completely empty place earlier this week, and I had kind of a flashback. When my wife an

I have a confession to make. I’ve been watching a lot of videos on the internet. I’m ashamed, and I don’t know how to stop. No, not that kind. I’ve been staring at cute videos of dogs, cats and babies on Facebook. Dumb people post them every day, and I’m one of the dummies clicking on them. It’s disturbing to me because I have always scoffed at folks who shared or watched sappy videos. I am not particularly fond of small dogs or babies, or, for reasons that ought to be obvious to anyone who

My wife and I are both 57. It’s a tough age, especially in this era where everybody is convincing themselves of phony math. I know 40 is the new 30, and 50 is the new 40, but let’s face it — 57 is the new 60. It’s like the first cold snap in the fall — It’s not winter yet, but it ain’t far off. For about two years now, we’ve been getting regular email solicitations from AARP, letting us know of the benefits we could get by joining. I rip them up without opening them. I am still young

On Super Bowl Sunday this year, we had a relative over to watch the game. I can’t be more specific about which relative for reasons that will soon become clear. At some point during the second half, the relative got up and left the room. Five minutes later, she came back looking kind of anxious. “Umm,” she said, in a quiet voice, “your powder room toilet is stopped up.” I jumped up from the couch, cursing and waving my arms like a madman. As I pushed past her to find my plunger, she called

My wife and I were going out on a Friday night. As I was locking the front door, she took one look at me and said, in a serious tone, “No! Go back inside and change those shoes.” I don’t have a lot of shoes. I wear a suit to work and have a pair of dress shoes to go with it. I have one pair of running shoes from that time my wife convinced me that we should run together — so basically a lifetime supply. I also have a pair of docksiders that are starting to come apart

Last week, my wife punched me in the arm as I was driving, as she often does, and announced her latest idea for a new business, as she also often does. She had read something on the internet and was going to set up shop as a Rent a Mom. At first, I was a tad skeptical. I am pretty sure there are places on the internet where you can rent a mom, but they’re not websites my wife — or — swear on a stack of Bibles, I — would go on. But my wife had seen a news

Our family has a collection of ragtag automobiles that, while they still run, have seen better days. My wife and I each need a car to get to work, and our two daughters in college have to have cars, or they could never leave campus. As a result, we all spend much of our time riding around in vehicles that may or may not get us where we want to go. For our cars, every mile could be the Green Mile. About three years ago, my wife and I went looking for a car for her, bringing along our oldest

I consider my marriage to be pretty successful. My wife and I have been sleeping together, pretty darn regularly, for close to 35 years. In the early days, we shared an old mattress her parents bought when they were newlyweds. It was so worn-out that there was a depression in the middle, toward which we rolled as the night went on. It was like slumbering in a really big catcher’s mitt. I look back fondly on those days. Over the years, our mattress quality has improved greatly, but our sleep

Last week — and I’m sure it had nothing to do with Father’s Day — I learned about something called “Dad Style.” If Dad Style seems an oxymoron to you, here’s the deal: The hippest among us are donning Hawaiian shirts, acid-washed, loose-fitting jeans, clunky white sneakers, baggy shirts and, for some God-awful reason, fanny packs. Male models are strutting runways toting (borrowed) tots. And they aren’t trying to be ironic. Across this country (Well, let’s be honest, mostly in hip neighborhood

My wife and I are about three-quarters of the way through our second West Highland white terrier. If that seems mean, consider this: We get our dogs pretty much the same way we get our cars. We find used ones other people are trying to get rid of, then nurse them along until they start developing leaks and strange noises. We got our first Westie, Harry, when he was already well into middle age. We had him for years until he was a shuffling old ghost, bumping into walls and wondering where he w

As all of our kids are now either off on their own or so close to the exit door all it would take is a little “accidental” push, my wife and I have been on a campaign to simplify, clean up and ship off anything unnecessary in our lives. We’re not moving to a smaller place. It’s just that offloading offspring has become an inspiration to clear the decks for our “second act.” We’ve been donating piles of clothes to thrift shops and sending kids off to college with cars so loaded they look like C

This weekend, as you are sitting at your breakfast table reading this column, I will be sitting on a hard chair in a huge basketball arena, watching our final child graduate from college. I say final because we have five kids, and now all of them are officially college graduates. Three of our kids, one son and two daughters, graduated just this month. This means that they’re all officially adults and theoretically able to make it on their own. If my wife and I were salmon, this is the point at

At our house these days, I deal with four females. There’s my wife, of course, and our twin daughters, both home for the summer from college. And there’s Sophie, a small, needy West Highland white terrier. The one thing you need to know about Sophie is that she seems to think she has the power of telepathy. She doesn’t bark or whimper or make any other gestures. She just stares at you — intently— as if she’s wearing a big turban with a jewel on it. This can get creepy at times, as there’s neve

This week, I was in a courtroom for the first time in almost 17 years. Decades ago, after watching too many episodes of “L.A. Law,” I went to law school. For about five years I actually worked as an attorney, but the legal life was nothing like I expected. I was the kind of lawyer who pored through 200-page agreements looking for typos while chugging free but terrible coffee. It was not for me. Long legal documents made my head swim, and I’d wake up at night shouting, “Billable hours! Billab

Anybody who knows my wife and me as a couple would say: 1) she’s in great shape, and 2) I am the other one. My wife runs 5Ks, 10Ks, half marathons and even marathons. She has worn out so many running shoes that her castoffs could keep a poor village someplace outfitted with teal green Mizuno Wave Riders for a year. I, on the other hand, run only when being chased. I work in a job that requires absolutely no physical movement other than getting up to go the fridge to get my lunch. I should have

I was driving last week and, to my horror, the check engine light came on. I pulled over, put the car in park and slowly banged my head against the window. For those of you who drive brand-new or even sort of new cars and have never experienced this, it is a Very. Bad. Thing. The check engine light is like going to the doctor and having him look you in the eye and ask you whether you have made a will. The check engine light is like your wife asking you to sit down for a serious talk and

A new report shows that a pretty sizable number of American men drop dead right around age 62, according to an article I read in the Wall Street Journal. The Cornell University researchers noticed that when men hit that age, a whole lot of them decide to retire, and the death rate jumps 2 percent. If you narrow it down to men who actually do retire at 62, the death rate climbs to a whopping 20 percent. While you’re filing for Social Security, your wife ought to save time and file for survivor

Little confession here. I have not had a professional haircut in almost 10 years. The paper doesn’t run my picture, but if it did, that confession would be unnecessary. My hair, where it exists, sprouts in various directions, as if I’d stuck my finger in a light socket on a day when there was already a fair amount of static electricity in the air. I have hair in the back and some in the front, but there’s a growing chasm between them. In another year or so, I will have just a little isolated

This week, I read that handsomest guy in the world George Clooney and his wife, Amal, are expecting twins. The babies are expected to arrive in the spring. It’s great news, and I expect that pretty much every woman in the world would like to be in Mrs. Clooney’s shoes, and not just because they’re most likely Manolo Blahniks. He seems to be a great guy, and the Clooney twins will never have to work a day in their lives. Odds are those kids are going to be great looking. If they ever end up mar

It happens just about every winter. The weather gets cold and mice start making their way through the many, many cracks and crevices in our old house to find places to wait out the winter. I personally don’t think it’s all that warm, or even all that nice, inside our place, but they seem to like it. Most years, I’ll find a ripped bag of chips or a cake with suspicious nibbling. Once or twice I’ve come down to find the butter with little claw marks on the side, and I know our winter house guest